Congratulations on Riding in a Bentley!

You’ll be waiting on the corner with the money in a satchel tucked under your arm. It will be raining, just as you expected.

You’ll be alone, as directed. You’ll be dressed in a blue windbreaker, as directed. It will be doing very little against the rain, which will be seeping through the thin mylar and into the flannel shirt and cotton undershirt you are wearing underneath, purely of your own volition.

You’ll be there for thirty minutes, which is what you were told to expect, before a stylish automobile pulls up in front of you and rolls down its windows. You’ll try to remember what its called briefly, but once the script you have memorized begins you’ll forget all about models and makes and focus on getting your daughter back safely.

“Are you ready?” a voice will ask from inside. The light of dusk and the natural shadow of the car will combine to make the speaker invisible, but the voice, gruff and masculine, will sound vaguely familiar.

“Ready to party,” you’ll say flatly, just as you rehearsed.

The door will open and you’ll step inside, ducking awkwardly in. The car will heave forward before you’ve had a chance to secure your seat belt and the money will go flying across the floor of the car. You’ll curse and try to pick it up but the figure sitting next to you will push you back into your seat.

“Buckle up,” he’ll say, his face unsmiling.

It’ll take a moment before you recognize him. He won’t be wearing a stained white t-shirt or ripped jeans, his typical vestments abandoned for a casual suit, but it’ll be him, un-aged after all these years of obscurity. Andrew W.K. will be sitting next to you, pushing you back into your chair, carefully examining you for some sign of betrayal or anxiety. You’ll be completely floored.

“You’re Andrew W.K.,” you’ll say, mouth agape.

“Your daughter is fine,” he’ll respond. “Very safe. I need you to understand that.”

You’ll nod, dumbly. “Is it true you hit yourself in the face with a brick for that album photo?” You’ll blurt out, interrupting him as he details just where your daughter is being kept.

“Is that really what’s foremost on your mind here?” he’ll say, pressing his fingers against his temples as if he is stifling some sort of pain. You’ll look at him, confused for a moment, before you nod.

“Oh, right. My daughter. Good. Yeah. Good. That she’s good.”

Andrew W.K. will look at you. He’ll look at the admiration in your eyes, the complete lack of anxiety over your daughter’s kidnapping or her safe return and he’ll shake his head.

“Take the money back,” he’ll say.

“Huh?” you’ll ask, still staring at him, a million questions about his beard running through your head.

“Take it back. I’m keeping your daughter.”

“What?” you’ll say, your heart dropping a little. “Why?”

He’ll look you up and down and start collecting the money from the floor and stuffing it back into the briefcase.

“I no longer believe you’re fit to be a parent,” he’ll say, stuffing the briefcase into your arms.

You’ll want to ask him more questions, like is there any way you can convince him you are and is his house as cool as he is and what has he been up to lately, you’ve missed his songs about partying, but you won’t get a chance. He’ll signal the driver and the car will slow. Then the door will open and you’ll be dragged by a be-suited man back out into the rain.

Andrew W.K. will drive away then, without further contact or gesture, and you’ll be left on another corner, far from the neighborhoods you know, clutching a briefcase filled with money and secure in the knowledge that your daughter has finally found a good home.

Congratulations on Riding in a Bentley!